Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1)

by Ayden K. Morgen

  "You don't seem very worried."

  He huffed and opened his other eye. "He's your father. Even if he hates me, and I really hope he doesn't, he probably won't shoot me because it'd upset you."

  "You think?" she asked hopefully.

  "That he won't shoot me or that it'd upset you if he did?"

  "Both?"

  He grinned at her lazily and closed his eyes again. "Go back to sleep, beautiful. He's not going to shoot me."

  Yeah, he was probably right about that. At least, she thought he was.

  "You worry about the strangest things," he muttered as she settled back against him again with another little sigh.

  "And you don't?" she challenged.

  "Nope. I have a bulletproof vest."

  "Oh God," she groaned at his lame attempt at a joke. "You're ridiculous."

  "And you're exhausted. Stop stressing about it and go back to sleep." He brushed his lips across her shoulder again. "We have shit to do later and you didn't sleep last night."

  "I wonder why," she muttered, her tone rife with sarcasm.

  "Easy," Tristan snorted. "You're insatiable."

  "So are you," she mumbled around a yawn, not even bothering to deny that charge. With him, she was insatiable.

  "Only for you," he said before his lips brushed across her shoulder again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  No matter how many times Lillian stepped through the doors to Teplo, the lights always caught her off guard. There was nothing subtle about the way they bounced around the club. It wasn't a ripple effect starting at one side and weaving its way to the other, but a series of bright, colorful pulses.

  One here.

  Another there.

  On and on in random patterns all across the massive room.

  When her eyes finally adjusted, she always felt exactly as if she'd stepped from one world into another. Each flash of light illuminated smiling faces and barely clothed bodies. They caught on seemingly disembodied hands clutching pills, vials, and wrinkled bills. The bright colors were spotlights beating down on those contorting to the music rippling through the club.

  Frenetic energy hit her like a fist when she stepped through the doors, but the strange lights made the people appear to move slower. At times, they seemed otherworldly, something far outside of anything she knew. Music didn't create something new and beautiful at Teplo. It helped hide the harsh, ugly things that made her chest ache. And her chest did ache. Every time she saw what the people within did to themselves, a piece of her heart broke.

  This wasn't some ballet acted out on stage. In this world, addiction ruled and the things that waited at the end of the night were life changing. Unprotected sex with strangers. Track marks. Death. This was the reality Tristan lived. It wasn't dressed up in pretty costumes and flowery music. It was pulsing lights, pounding beats, underdressed women, and unwashed men, all haunting Teplo like wraiths.

  And she didn't get to just forget this world when she stepped outside. She carried it with her now. The scents lingered on her skin and clothes. The sounds whispered in the back of her mind. When she closed her eyes, lights still flashed behind her lids as if branded there.

  It made her want to cry.

  It made her want to scream.

  It made her want to wrap her arms around Tristan and hold on tight.

  But something was different this time. The ache in her chest more pronounced. The cold fingers of fear were stronger. Everything in her screamed at her to leave. To take Tristan by the hand and lead him back outside to safety. As he led her through the club, she looked left and right, trying to pinpoint the source of her unease. Nothing had changed inside.

  When juxtaposed with the discontent rushing through her, the business-as-usual feel seemed too normal. As if a bright neon sign hung above the crowd. One that said, "Welcome to Pleasantville" or "Meet the Joneses". Both were wrong. Misleading.

  She glanced over her shoulder, checking to ensure no one followed them.

  No one did.

  Tristan pulled her closer as they neared the far side of the club. "You okay?"

  She wanted to tell him no, that something felt different, but she didn't know how to explain it, or if there was even a reason to explain. Since talking with her father she felt… off. Guilty. Hiding the truth from him didn't sit well with her, but she'd lied anyway.

  Is that why coming here tonight seemed so wrong? Because it felt different now that she'd lied outright to her father?

  "Beautiful?"

  "I'm fine," she said, unsure how true that was.

  Something was wrong… she just didn't know what.

  Tristan examined her face, his expression full of concern, but he nodded, accepting her lie. "Dance with me," he murmured in her ear.

  She let him lead her to the dance floor, knots of fear twisting in her stomach.

  Lillian shook her hips, gyrating with Tristan like she always did, but her movements were stiff, tense. Her wide-eyed gaze darted around the club, focusing here and there before moving on. Whatever had her on edge had Tristan wound up like a spring. The longer she danced with him, refusing or unable to relax, the more tightly coiled he became. Her unease fed his until he felt ready to explode into fine pieces.

  "What are you looking for, beautiful?" he asked, his lips at her ear.

  She shook her head, not answering. Her gaze still bounced around the room, constantly moving.

  Unable to stand it any longer, he stilled her hips before leading her from the dance floor, back to the far corner where nothing but seclusion and brick waited. She leaned against the wall, her breath coming in shallow inhalations and sharp exhalations. Her body shook, a faint tremble winding its way through her.

  "Look at me, sweetheart."

  She opened her eyes, focusing on him.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, stroking his fingertips along the sides of her throat.

  "Something isn't right." Her eyes bounced around the crowd again.

  "What isn't right?"

  "I don't know." She shook her head, frustrated, her worried gaze flickering back to him. "You don't feel it?"

  "Feel what?"

  "I don't know. It just feels wrong."

  "How so?"

  She frowned. "It feels like something's happening, something's missing. I don't know. I just-" She broke off, her frown deepening.

  "Talk to me, Lillian," he urged her, ready to tear his hair out.

  She scanned the crowd. Once, twice. A third time. "They aren't here anymore," she muttered suddenly, clutching his arm.

  "Who isn't here?" Tristan fought the urge to swear, trying to let her go at her own pace, to understand her instincts, and trust them. Instinct guided every facet of his life, and he wasn't stupid enough to ignore hers. But goddamn, it was driving him crazy to see her like this, so uncertain and fearful.

  "Anton Vetrov's people," she said. "They aren't here, Tristan."

  "What?" He blinked.

  "They aren't here anymore," she said again. "I've only seen Hannah and Stephan for the last hour. Where are the rest of them?"

  Tristan turned toward the crowd, his eyes narrowed. He scanned the room, taking in the frenzied crowd beneath the pulsing lights. Stephan and Hannah lingered near the door to the storage room, watching the crowd. He'd been so focused on Lillian, he'd missed it, but she was right. The rest of the Vetrov guards were nowhere to be seen.

  "Walk with me," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist.

  They made another slow circuit around the club. Tristan looked every which way as they walked, trying to find the rest of Anton's people in the crowd. Hannah and Stephan still hovered near the storage room, but the others were nowhere to be found.

  Tristan started another circuit, trying to make sure he hadn't missed the others. Lillian stayed right beside him, the expression on her face intent as she searched, too.

  Halfway around the room, he stopped, excitement firing through him. Hannah and Stephan were no longer near the door.
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  He spun around, searching the crowd, and found them elbowing their way across the far edge of the dance floor, away from the storage room.

  Lillian gasped, her body jerking beside him.

  Tristan glanced at her to find her eyes trained on something at the front of the club.

  "Fuck," he swore, his eyes widening when he followed her gaze.

  Brett Warner stood in front of the doors, his bulk blocking the entrance to the club.

  And Hannah and Stephan were headed right for him.

  Lillian's heart pounded as she watched Officer Warner slip through Teplo's wide double doors. Even from a distance, she saw the badge hanging from a chain around his neck. The lights seemed to glint off of the metal, reflecting it back into the room like a spotlight shining on the Holy Grail.

  "Tristan?" she whispered, fear rushing through her as Hannah and Stephan closed in on the portly officer, fake smiles plastered across their faces.

  "What's he doing?" Tristan muttered.

  Lillian stood rooted to the spot, watching as Hannah reached out to shake Officer Warner's hand. She couldn't make out what the woman said to him, or what he said in return, but Stephan pointed toward the bar. The three moved in that direction. Warner stepped to the side as a girl in a tube top and stilettos stumbled, the drink in her hand close to tipping over.

  "Beautiful." Tristan turned back to Lillian, his grip on her waist tightening. His eyes burned an intense, excited blue. "I want you to do something for me."

  Her stomach clenched, and not in a good way. She knew what he wanted to do before the words ever left his mouth.

  "Go wait outside for me," he whispered.

  "Tristan, no." She shook her head, her heart in her throat.

  He brushed his hand down her cheek. "So long as he's with them, there's no one guarding the door. This may be our only shot, sweetheart."

  Her stomach threatened to rebel. "Let me go with you."

  "No," he said, his tone decisive, final. The hard look in his eyes made it clear he wouldn't budge. "I'll be out before they even realize I went in. But I can't take you in there with me."

  He was right, she knew he was. She'd done her part. Now she had to let him do his.

  "Promise me you'll be safe," she demanded, terror pounding through her like a drum.

  "I swear to you that I'll be fine, baby. Nothing's going to happen to me."

  She searched his face, looking for a single sign of hesitation and found none.

  He was certain of that promise.

  "Okay." She swallowed hard, nodded.

  Tristan pressed his lips to hers hard before stepping back. "Go, beautiful."

  She turned and walked away before she lost the nerve. Her heart hammered an erratic rhythm. Her eyes and throat burned. She ached to look back, but didn't dare. "He'll be okay," she chanted to herself under her breath as she neared the doors.

  God, if something happened to him….

  No. Nothing would happen. He'd get in, and get back out before Hannah and Stephan finished with Officer Warner.

  "Dude, did you hear? Some chick died last night!"

  Lillian jerked to a halt as another group spilled into the club, shouting to one another.

  "No way!"

  "Seriously! I was standing right there when the pig showed the little chick at the door the photo. Said he needed to speak to the dudes in charge about the dead girl," a guy with a Mohawk yelled to his friend as they pushed past Lillian, not paying her any attention whatsoever.

  "Damn. That sucks," his friend yelled back.

  "I know, right?"

  Lillian reached out and grabbed the first guy's arm. He looked down at her hand on his arm, and then at her, a slow grin spreading across his face.

  "Did the cop say her name?" she demanded.

  "Who's name?"

  "The dead girl's."

  "Oh." He narrowed his eyes, seeming to think. "Emma Bradford? Emma Buford?" He shrugged, and then looked at her again. "Who cares? Wanna dance?"

  Emma.

  The young girl who'd stopped her days ago flashed in her mind.

  Oh, god.

  Her stomach turned. She sucked in a sharp breath before ducking outside, her heart in her throat.

  "Hurry, Tristan," she pleaded, stumbling away from the crowd at the door. "Oh God, please hurry."

  Tristan watched Lillian until she was on her way out the doors before grabbing his phone out of his pocket to scroll through the contacts for Warner's number. His fingers flew across the keys as he typed in a text, demanding Warner keep Hannah and Stephan busy as long as possible.

  He had no fucking clue if Warner would see it in time, but he hoped like hell that he did. Having him inside, occupying Hannah and Stephan while the others were somewhere outside the club was a one in a million opportunity. Perhaps the only one he'd get.

  He slipped his phone back into his pocket and veered toward the storage room, weaving through the nameless, faceless until the door appeared less than five feet to his right. He paused at the edge of the dance floor, waiting.

  He was calm, focused.

  Lillian was outside, in the clear.

  Now or never.

  A group of people broke away from the crowd on the floor and started in the direction of the door, laughing loudly. Tristan moved like a leopard, attaching himself to the group. He held his breath, hoping like hell they didn't break off and scatter too soon. If they did, he'd be on his own.

  Four feet… three…

  The group started peeling off, veering away from the door.

  Tristan swore to himself.

  "Warner, don't let me down, you big bastard," he muttered.

  Two feet…

  Tristan spun toward the door as the group moved farther away, slamming into the wall beside it before falling to his knees, his back toward the camera and his hand grasping at the handle as if trying to drag himself back to his feet.

  Locked.

  Of fucking course.

  "Motherfucker," he swore, delving into his pocket for the lock-pick he kept there at all times. As soon as his hand closed around the slim instrument, he jerked it from his pocket and shoved it into the lock.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

  He manipulated the pick, swearing when it slipped out of the locking mechanism.

  Blood rushed in his ears in a roar.

  "Son of a-"

  The lock clicked.

  The door popped open.

  Tristan bounded to his feet, keeping his head down so the camera didn't catch his face, and all but dove into the storage room.

  Fuck, yes!

  He was in.

  He took a deep breath, pulling the door closed behind him before he made his way deeper into the room. Shelves lined the walls, piled high with cleaning supplies. Empty cases of beer overflowed the round trashcan in the corner. The fluorescent light overhead hummed and flickered, the bulbs dying. Shadows bounced around the room like finger puppets.

  His eyes landed on the door, situated on the opposite wall, halfway across the room.

  He was at in in three steps, pulling it open before bounding forward into darkness. He stepped carefully, planting his feet solidly on the steps leading downward as he pulled his cell from his pocket to activate the flashlight feature.

  The air was heavy, thick, dust motes dancing in the air in front of the weak light. His heart raced, excitement pumping through him as he descended.

  A string of curses rattled from his lips one after another when he reached the bottom.

  The basement was boarded up, cobwebs stretched across the corners of the old wood. There was no way into the lab through here. Frustration boiled through him, raging unchecked when he realized there probably never had been. They'd set him up, and he'd fallen for it.

  He clenched his hands into fists, glancing around. Every part of him wanted to kick the boards free, prove that he hadn't fallen into a trap. But Warner couldn't keep Hannah and Stephan busy forever.
And who the hell knew when the rest of their people would reappear?

  "Think, dammit," he muttered, turning this way and that, trying to come up with a plan. He reached into his pocket once more, pulling out the little hidden camera he carried. He glanced at it, and then up the stairs at the mass of crap piled around. Back and forth.

  "Fucking hell," he muttered, seeing only one option.

  Jason would kill him when he found out.

  Didn't matter though. He didn't have another choice.

  Cramming the cellphone back into his pocket, he strode back up the stairs and to the shelves directly across from the basement door, running his eyes along the items stacked there. In the far corner, hidden behind a bottle of Mr. Clean, was a battered box. Tristan nudged the cleaning supplies out of the way and wedged the lighter into the top of the box, camera lens facing out. Making sure it was aimed at the door and secure, he tapped the record button, and then arranged the cleaning supplies to help camouflage the small device. Before he could talk himself out of leaving it there, he hurried from the room, his head down and his heart racing.

  Lillian huddled near the wall outside the club, fighting for calm. The urge to pace ran rampant through her, but she refused to give in, instead planting her feet and gritting her teeth.

  It felt as if Tristan had been inside forever. Logically, she knew it'd only been a few minutes, but God, time stretched on and on.

  Her heart raced so fast, it actually hurt. Her skin crawled. Everything in her screamed, pleading for Tristan to appear at the doors.

  He didn't.

  She shouldn't have left him inside by himself. She should have made him take her with him. She could have watched his back and made sure no one saw him. She could have done something, anything but wait outside while he took all the risk.

  He needed her and she was-

  A familiar head of dark hair broke through the group milling right outside the doors.

  "Oh God," she sobbed, throwing herself at Tristan as soon as he stepped clear of the crowd.

  "Hey," he whispered, catching her to his chest.